Lights Will Guide You Home
by Alka Iris
Summary: Surviving is hard. Living is even harder. MichaelxRobin, Post Series.
1. Prologue: Do You Know I Miss You?

She was bleeding. She was shaking. She was stumbling, swaying like a drunk because she couldn't get her feet to move right and her chest felt hollow like a gaping wound. She stopped and rested against a wall, pressing her cheek against the rough brick just so she could feel something real.

The night was too warm. The street lamps smouldered like burning stars; their heavy neon glow filtering over the cracked pavement and shop windows like a heavy miasma, thick as honey. Cars sped down the road. Their lights flashed in her eyes and her vision swam. She took in a deep breath.

She needed to keep walking. Had to keep going. Needed to get somewhere safe. She'd promised him. He'd said. He'd said -

Her mind went blank. She shuddered. Froze.

"Best not to think," she whispered. But it was too late.

_("Go," he hissed, gripping her wrist. His palm was slick with blood. "Go now. You know what to do.")_

She slid to the ground. She stared blankly at the road as another car sped past in a whirr of noise and light. There were people walking past her: a woman with high heels and long dark hair. A business man who gave her a curious look, then moved on. A teenager with an orange jacket who didn't even glance her way. Maybe they thought she was homeless. Maybe they were too busy to help her. Maybe they didn't care.

She closed her eyes. She didn't realy care either.

_("I can't," she said. She shook her head numbly, like a doll on a string, eyes blurred with unwanted tears. "I won't leave you.")_

But.

_("You will," he said, eyes calm and dark. Determined. "You promised me, Robin.")_

He had.

_("Go.")_

She stood up carefully. She pressed one hand to the wall, taking each step slowly, as if she was afraid to fall. She hadn't realized how badly her legs were trembling. _I can do this, _she thought. _I can._

After all, there was a long way to go yet.


	2. Chapter Two: But I Want His Wings

It was barely light outside, but the cold woke Michael up anyway. He'd left the window open (again) to get rid of the smell (again). It hadn't helped. The room still stank of dust and rot; dirty clothes heaped over abandoned pizza boxes and half-empty food cartons. But now it was cold _and_ it stank, and Michael couldn't bring himself to shiver under the bedcovers any longer. He slunk out of bed, ignoring the stench as he picked his way across the floor and grabbed the nearest jacket. He shrugged it on and and brushed his mussed brown hair away from his face with one hand, too tired to search for a comb. The room was a mess, _he _was a mess. But hell, it didn't matter all that much.

Stumbling into the kitchen, he began rummaging through the cupboards, sorting through unused tubs of peanut butter and half-finished bars of chocolate. After a few moments of searching, Michael leaned back and gave the contents of the cupboard a groggy, irritated look. Where...?

He shut the cupboard. Slammed his head against it with a groan.

"Fuck it," he muttered. He was out off instant coffee.

So instead of having his morning cup of coffee (black, no milk, half a spoon of sugar) he resigned himself to slumping on the sofa, morosely scooping peanut butter out of a jar with knife. The TV worked after he kicked it a few times (a piece of junk like that took special skill). The news was on - some reporter with neat blonde hair and a sweet smile was talking about a fire in a government housing area. _But the question is, is this a sign of society's neglect of the poor and needy?_ she asked prettily, and he switched the channel.

Some kids' show came on. Michael got back to scraping peanut butter out of the bottom of the tub, ignoring the images flickering on the screen.

When the phone rang he reached for it with practiced ease; slipping over to the side of the couch, lifting the receiver and holding it against his ear, the peanut butter precariously balanced on one knee. The knife had vanished somewhere. It didn't take much imagination to figure it had slipped to the floor, never to be found again.

"Do you know what time it is?" He said testily.

A chuckle.

"Did I wake you up then? I'd _hate_ to disturb your rest."

"It doesn't matter," he said. "You got a reason for bothering me?"

"Oh, _someone_ woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

"No coffee," he said shortly, too tired to explain himself. "Get to the point."

Another laugh, and he heard the whisper of cloth as she moved in her seat.

"I have a job for you," she said finally. "This is a big one, Michael. That should make you happy, huh?"

There was silence. Michael fixed his eyes on the television, lights flickering on his glasses. His fingers tapped the armrest thoughtfully.

"Where do I meet you?" he asked.

n

_A cafe_, he thought with amusement. She _would_ pick a cafe - what a sense of humour. It almost made him like her.

Almost.

It was a clean, well-lit place, and not particularly busy. One of the waiters gave him a polite smile as he passed, which Michael chalked up to the fact that he'd brushed his hair and put on clean clothes and generally didn't look like a hobo, which was a rare event these days. He gave a quick upturn of the lips in return, and turned to look around the room.

She was sitting in the corner, calmly sipping a steaming cup of bitter, dark liquid. An identical cup sat in front of her. Michael sat in the opposite seat and grabbed the cup, taking a quick gulp, head thrown back with almost comical relief. _Bliss_.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Thank you," he muttered.

"I thought you needed it," she said. "I do so _hate_ you grumpy."

He took another gulp, and decided to let that one pass. She'd given him coffee, after all, and they were near enough to the radiator to warm his freezing limbs. She watched him calmly (her eyes were dark today; a nondescript brown) and slipped her hand into her purse.

"Here," she said, pushing a disc across the table. "That is all the information we have."

He set his drink back onto the table and picked up the disc. Quick on to business as always - she wasn't one to dawdle. Slipping the disc into his pocket, Michael gave her an inquiring look.

"Anything you want to tell me about it?" Michael asked.

She shook her head.

"Just uncode it," she said. "Find out the rest, if you can. I don't have to tell you anymore, do I Michael?" She sat, pensive for a moment. Then she added: "We'll pay you, of course. _Very_ well, if you find everything we want. How does that sound?"

He could have told her that he didn't care how it sounded. He could have told her a whole lot of things. Instead, he traced the edge of the disc through the material of his jacket. _What would it be like, to be able to start again?_

"It sounds fine," he said. "Just fine."

She nodded, gave the waiter a flirty wink, and left enough money for both drinks (and a little extra for a tip) on the table. She slipped her handbag strap over her shoulder and gave Michael an almost affectionate pat on the head as she walked away.

"Goodbye, darling," she murmured. "Be seeing you soon!"

He scowled at her back. Then he turned to his coffee and took another slow, bitter sip. That woman irritated the hell out of him. He hated the way she treated him like some _kid_ or some damn animal that needed _petting_. He was twenty years old. He wasn't a kid by anyone's standards. Or at least, not by the standards of anyone who _mattered_.

He finished his coffee far too quickly, and found that he didn't really want to leave. The cafe was warm and clean and better than anything Michael had been bothered to visit in what seemed like ages. There was nothing waiting for him at home except for his computer and far too many dirty clothes that he wouldn't clean _anyway_, smell be damned. It was nicer in the cafe. Better.

Kind of like old times, really.

Michael left pretty quickly after that. _Leave the old times in the past, Lee._ He stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunched forward almost protectivley as he stepped out into the cold morning air. The wind blew through his hair as he trudged his way up the street, apparently too lost in his thoughts to notice the world around him. Sunlight hit his pale skin, touched his hair with gold. His shadow stretched out behind him like a long, dark specter.

He pressed his palm to the disc, just to feel the smoothness; the promise of payment. For all the woman's faults, she always kept her words when it came to things like money. She knew the value of cold, hard cash, just like he did. She just had more of it. More than enough to spare for a guy like him.

It would be nice to have a challenge again, to be able to feel something other than the heavy lethargy that clung to his bones. Life had been too quiet for too long, and the days were starting to meld together into nothing at all.

Not that he could complain.

He'd made it that way, after all.

n

"This is the place," she whispered to herself, looking up at the building with hazy green eyes. She swayed on her feet, weaker and weaker as she reached her goal. She crossed her arms, gripped herself like a frightened child. "Almost there."

She'd washed her face in a drinking fountain only a little while ago. The cool morning air had pinched her skin, but at least she was clean. Or less dirty, perhaps. Less bruised.

Her hair hung limp around her face - she'd lost her ribbons along with everything else, and they didn't matter so much anymore. She was careful not to look too frail as she made her way into the building, stepping up the badly polished steps towards the elevator. She didn't want to be stopped. What if someone asked her questions? _Are you all right? Can you tell me what happened?_ Or. _Should I get help?_

No. No. No.

He was on the sixth floor (or was it the seventh? Amon had made her memorize this - how could she forget?). She pressed the button for number six, then leaned carefully against the elevator wall. Her limbs were feeling painful, sore and far too sensitive. But she wanted a little rest, _needed_ it. She half-closed her eyes. Tired.

_Third, Fourth, Fifth._

How could time move so slowly?

_Sixth._

The door opened with a ping, and she slipped out into the corridor. She moved on auto-pilot (take a left here, then a right; three doors down, she'd learned the way so long ago). She would not fall. She would not fall.

She came to his door. Pressed her hand to it for a moment, just to steady herself (was it natural to feel so dizzy?). Then she leaned back, once again resting her weight on her tired, aching feet.

She knocked.

There was the sound of movement, somewhere within, and then she heard the sound of his footsteps. His voice echoed out, strange and sudden, so _real_ and clear that it made her sick with desire for a time when things were so much simpler. She swayed. Tired, so tired.

"Look," he shouted, irritable as he wrenched open the door. "If you're here about the disc I'm getting to it soon oka--" He stopped, eyes wide. His lips moved, soundless for a moment and then finally, almost disbelieving he said in a strangely vulnerable voice, "...Robin?"

"Michael," she whispered. Smiled weakly. "You're taller."

It was, she guessed, acceptable to fall now.

So she did.

* * *

Author's Notes: Lady-Azura, yes I agree there should be more MxR fic! They are adorable. XD youngwiccan, that _was_ Amon in the first chapter, yup. I hope this is starting to look like less of an AmonxRobin now though! (Not that Amon doesn't play an important role evil laugh). Please review guys! I need to know there is love in the world. 3  



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